MarySue
by Bryher
Summary: A writer has the task of rooting out an errant Mary-Sue that has found her way into a story.


Title: Mary-Sue

Rating: T

Summary: A writer has the task of rooting out an errant Mary-Sue that has dived into her work.

Author's Note: Venting after a bad day. Purely fun- although, actually, pretty serious. Oneshot, needless to say.

* * *

Lancelot shaded his eyes against the low sun, noting that it was getting well into the evening. The fort was still buzzing, the last of the tradesmen packing away their wares and the tavern just beginning to fill.

'A beautiful evening, don't you think,' a smooth voice murmured by his shoulder. The curly-haired knight glanced down at the stunningly beautiful young woman standing beside him. Blonde, wavy hair fell to her shoulders, braided in some places: a delicate face swathed in pale, milky skin turned toward the sunset, capturing the high cheekbones that seemed proud and lonely all on their own. Twin swords horribly like his own hung over her slim shoulders, while a broadsword was belted around her tiny waist. Looking down at his own simple tunic and breeches, Lancelot resisted the temptation to ask the girl why she was wearing weaponry. It would only escalate the situation into another _Ebony_ escapade. He'd never quite forgiven the raven-haired, samurai-sword wielding psychic for her 'prediction' that she was his true love- something she'd tried to consummate by jumping him in the stables. A slight breeze ruffled the treetops. Lancelot could honestly never remember being so happy as to see Bors that day.

Crystal turned her face toward him, mouth parted in a pout, aquamarine eyes shining with a radiance that spoke of immeasurable woe and tribulation. 'Lancelot?' the young woman practically purred, 'Is there something wrong?'

'No,' the knight replied shortly. He glanced the other way, looking for Tristan, who had confined himself to the gatehouse roof, barricading the door behind him. The younger man nodded to the Scout, who nodded back.

'Who are you waiting for, Lancelot?' Crystal murmured, leaning against the parapet. 'I could go and scout for them- you know I'm almost recovered from that stab wound. You know- the blade meant for Arthu-'

'Dagonet would never forgive me for letting you out of the fort,' Lancelot droned, reciting the mantra that these women seemed to want to hear.

'It's nice that you care,' Crystal almost whispered, turning to face him fully. 'Since my parents and the rest of my family died, I-'

'Bryher!' Lancelot bellowed, almost jumping from the Wall top. He spun on his heel and raced down the steps and toward the gates. 'Gawain! Galahad,' he yelled as he pelted by the training yard, 'She's here!' The two knights looked at eachother, dropped their weapons, and followed Lancelot.

'Thank God,' Arthur murmured wearily, 'I thought she'd never get here.' The half-Roman was leaning against the outer wall, waiting for the figure on horseback that was steadily approaching the fort.

'Who is this _Bryher_?' Crystal whined, stepping up behind Arthur and situating herself in between Gawain and Galahad in a picturesque show of unity and one-ness with the knights. 'Was she a tortured prisoner, too?'

'Tortured, yes,' Arthur deadpanned. 'But not by Romans, Britons or any other faction of this place.'

By now, the rider was close enough to see: her expression was stormy.

Dismounting, the young woman walked over to the group of knights and nodded curtly. 'Alright, lads?'

Crystal stepped forward, chin high. 'My name is Crystal,' she announced grandly. 'And you are?'

The young woman, who was wearing jeans and a hoodie emblazoned with a university emblem, stared at her. 'Wow- you're beautiful. Better than the last one, anyway. Still shite though- I mean, really? _Crystal_?'

Arthur made a chopping motion across his neck, the knights behind him pleading with their eyes- all aside from Tristan, who watched the scene from the gatehouse roof.

Crystal narrowed her aquamarine eyes. In one fluid motion, she had drawn the huge broadsword and had it pointed at the woman's throat. 'Who are you?' she snarled, gorgeously terrifying and powerful all at once.

'Me?' Dipping a hand into her hoodie pocket, the young woman drew out a Colt 45. 'I'm Bryher. The author.'

* * *

As was usually the case, the Mary-Sue simply melted into the ground, the bloodstain from the crater sized hole in her perfect forehead fading into the dust. Arthur cleared his throat. 'A Colt 45.?' he questioned. ''Weren't they-'

'Developed in 1872? Yes they were, and if you say anything about it, Arthur, you will die a horrific death in the next fiction.'

* * *

You can review if you like. If I've pissed you off 'cause you write Mary-Sues, tough shit. We've all done it. Just some of us actually realise how horrific they are. 


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